


Walk out of the Jaws of Hell

by NB_Cecil



Series: No Privacy on a Space Station [6]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: A-spec Garak, And the tank top has a hideous green friend, Asexuality Spectrum, Autistic Character, Autistic Julian Bashir, Avoiding Therapy, Bashir’s Risa trousers get another cameo, Bashir’s terrible dress sense, Body Image, Body Worship, But that goes out the window when Garak decides it’s imperative he break into Bashir’s quarters, Cardassian Anatomy, Cardassian sense of smell, Caring!Bashir, Caring!Garak, Caring!Martok, Chapter 2 is fluffy, Chapter 3 is smutty, Chapter 4 is out-and-out slash, Chapter 5 is fluff and care-taking again, Chapters 1 is angsty, Chubby Lizard, Consensual Sexual Humiliation, Cuddling and Snuggling, Fat!Garak, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Garak has a little more respect for Bashir’s privacy, Garak’s Inventory, Gratuitous Poetry, Human anatomy viewed through the gaze of an alien, Humiliation, Humiliation kink, Hurt/Comfort, Infodumping, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Male Slash, Masturbation, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Missing Scene, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Obsidian Order Habits Die Hard, PWP without Porn, Pillow Talk, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Poetry, S5E15 By Inferno’s Light, Sickfic (sort of), Situational Humiliation, Slash, Surveillance!Garak, Therapy, There’s No Privcacy on a Runabout Either, Tinsnip’s Speculative Cardassian Xenobiology, Voyeurism, Yes I made it cold on the promenade so we can see Bashir’s nipples through his tank top, body image issues, body shame, voyeurism kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-01-31 20:08:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18598516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NB_Cecil/pseuds/NB_Cecil
Summary: Set during and afterBy Inferno’s Light. Fluff on a runabout; then fluff, smut, slash, then fluff again on a space station. Garak is only marginally inappropriate with the surveillance in this one.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the runabout, on the return from Internment Camp 371 Bashir does his best field medicine on his shipmates’ fragile mental health; Garak does his best by Bashir’s mental health; and Martok looks out for Worf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *****Content Warning: Reference to past torture; everyone’s mental health is a bit frazzled.*****

“Computer, reduce lights to fifteen percent.” Bashir instructed. He flopped onto the unoccupied bunk, not bothering to remove his boots. Tiredness overwhelmed him: he had checked Worf’s blood pressure three times before he could remember the values long enough to record them on the padd. He fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the thin pillow.

 

Once the runabout had cleared the Jem’hadar fighters Bashir had left the autopilot to do the work of flying the ship safely home with Garak, Martok and the Romulan taking shifts to watch over it, and turned his attention to Worf. 

The Klingon was in a bad way: broken ribs and a punctured lung, renal trauma, a fractured wrist, severe dehydration, and numerous bruises. Bashir had worked solidly for two hours to stabilise his patient using the limited medical equipment on the runabout and had decided to keep him under heavy sedation until they arrived back on DS9. Then he had turned his attention to its remaining crew, calling each in turn into his makeshift sick bay in the small cabin to check them over for injuries (all minor and treatable) and ask questions designed to ascertain the state of their mental health (delicate at best) after their ordeal in the internment camp.

Martok had blustered, showing off “injuries sustained in glorious battle” and refusing to allow Bashir to treat them with the tissue regenerator. He waved off Bashir’s enquiry about how he was feeling with a “Klingon warriors revel in the glory of victory”. The Romulan had been surprisingly cooperative, lifting her tunic so the doctor could examine a phaser burn. She had responded to his “So, how are you feeling?” with a sigh and a declaration that she was “Exhausted, and probably suffering an acute trauma response”. Bashir had agreed with her assessment and ordered her to bed in the spare cabin, instructing Martok to take the first shift babysitting the autopilot.

Garak, as usual, had been hostile in the face of medical treatment, tersely informing Bashir that he was “just fine thank you, Doctor” before he had even opened his mouth to ask, then lapsing into an uncooperative silence. Bashir ran the tricorder over him, read aloud its list of Garak’s vitals and his injuries and ailments, didn’t waste his breath in offering to treat any of them, and sent the Cardassian to relieve Martok on the runabout’s flight deck.

 

The cabin door hissed closed after Garak slipped through. Moving quietly, he picked up the chair from beside the small desk and placed it next to Bashir’s bunk. He sat. Needing to _touch_ his friend after so long apart and the arduous events of the last few days, but not wanting to disturb his rest, he reached out a hand and brushed his fingers tentatively against Bashir’s ankle. The Human didn’t stir so he let his hand rest there. He studied Bashir’s face, half-obscured by his arm flung across his forehead to shield his eyes from the dim light. Dark circles under the doctor’s eyes, days’-worth of beard growth not quite masking hollows which hadn’t been there before under his cheek bones, the ghosts of fingertips imprinted in fading bruises just visible on the man’s neck... “ _What happened to you in solitary confinement?_ ” Garak whispered, grip momentarily tightening on Bashir’s leg. The Human slept on, and in the silence Garak’s mind wandered to darker and darker places as he flipped through increasingly violent scenarios in which Bashir could have sustained those bruises, comparing them to memories from his own past when _he_ had been the one doing the inflicting.

Garak had dug himself into a pit of guilt and worry when a soft chiming sound coming from under Bashir’s pillow jerked him back to the present. The Human stirred, mumbled and opened his eyes. 

“Garak,” Bashir said flatly, “You’re supposed to be watching the autopilot.”

“Our Romulan friend has taken over.” Garak replied, smiling his best _everything’s-taken-care-of_ smile, which never worked on Bashir anyway.

“Then you should be in bed. We’ve all been pretty sleep-deprived lately.” Bashir swung his legs over the side of the bunk and sat up. “Why are you here staring at me anyway?”

“I—“ Garak’s voice hitched in his throat and he cast his eyes down to the floor, “—I missed you, my dear.”

He was still staring resolutely at the floor, avoiding eye-contact in case his admission of vulnerability was being met with a scornful look, so Bashir’s quick, affectionate squeeze to his knee caught him by surprise.

“That’s sweet... and only a bit creepy.” The hectoring tone was gone from Bashir’s voice, replaced by something gentler. Garak looked up in time to catch the doctor’s attempt at a grin, which came out more like a strained grimace. 

Bashir rose from the bed, stretched, bustled over to Worf, lying in the opposite bunk, and began checking his patient’s vital signs. He was absorbed in taking Worf’s pulse—the reading was there on the tricorder, but _physically_ pressing his fingers to the Klingon’s neck and counting under his breath was giving the doctor a much-needed connection to his work and keeping his over-tired brain from losing focus—when Garak’s question caught him off-guard.

“And how are _you_ feeling, Doctor?”

“Tired, achy, dirty...” He listed off before he’d had a chance to think about who was asking, “Oh, and I can still feel Ikat’ika’s hand on my throat like it just—“ He stopped himself. “Garak, I’m fine,” He turned to the Cardassian, “Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix.” 

“I’m sure you are, dear,” Garak’s smile was back, “But should you find yourself _not_ coping, you know you can ask for help.”

“I’m fine.” Bashir insisted again, but only half-heartedly. “And I have a job to do.” He turned back to Worf, checking his saline drip.

“If you say so.”

“Garak, get out.” Bashir snapped, snatching up a padd.

“Why?” 

“Because I’m working and you’re a distraction.”

“My dear Doctor, I have no intention of leaving.” Garak remained resolutely seated in his chair.

Bashir banged the padd down on the desk and opened a medkit, slamming instruments into it with more force than was necessary. “Ok, do what you like, but don’t bother me.” He stomped back to his bunk and lay down, turning his back to the Cardassian.

“I, too, can read signs of trauma, Doctor.” Garak pressed on. “I honed that skill especially well back on Cardassia. And you!” He jabbed a finger in Bashir’s direction, “Now, you are showing several signs of being far from ‘fine’.”

“Ok, yes. I’m not fine.” Bashir admitted with an exasperated sigh, rolling over to face his friend. “But I can’t do anything about it just now. I have a very sick patient to care for and we have to get home. Once we’re back, no doubt Starfleet will want to debrief all of us and that will include psychological assessments. Just let me sleep now before I have to check Worf again, will you?” He rummaged under the pillow for the padd, prodding at it to set the alarm.

Garak stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “I’m staying right here.”

Bashir blew out his cheeks and rolled his eyes, sighing. “You’re a pest,” He complained.

Garak shrugged, the smile returning. “I recall _you_ made quite a nuisance of yourself when my wire was malfunctioning, Doctor.”

Bashir opened his mouth to argue that being a nuisance was part of his job as a CMO, but thought better of it. He scooted back against the wall and patted the strip of mattress between himself and the edge of the narrow bunk. “If you’re going to stay, at least lie down and try to sleep?” He urged.

Garak inclined his head in acquiescence and leaned forward in the chair to remove his shoes, tucking them neatly under the bunk when he was done. 

They manoeuvred carefully on the bunk, searching for a position where they could lie together comfortably without danger of falling off. Eventually they settled, facing each other, bodies pressed together, Bashir’s knee pressed between Garak’s thighs.

Garak smoothed a hand over Bashir’s forehead, pushing back unruly hair. “You need a haircut, my dear,” He half-whispered.

“I do,” Bashir agreed, “But I’d settle for a long bath and a shave.”

Garak continued to run his hand over the doctor’s hair in a steady, rhythmic caress. “A bath... yes, I don’t feel so salubrious myself,” He agreed.

Spotting a single silver hair in the mass of black, he ran his finger along it, then kissed the point where it sprouted from the Human’s hairline. Bashir’s eyes fluttered closed and his breathing slowed. Garak continued stroking with a thumb against the man’s temple as the doctor slipped into sleep, re-arranging himself so that his chin rested on the top of Bashir’s head. He sighed, letting some of the tension he’d been carrying since he’d decoded Tain’s message seep out of him.

 

Garak feigned sleep when the door hissed open and General Martok entered. He listened as Martok—with as much stealth as a six-foot Klingon wearing partial armour can manage—approached the bunk, took the chair, and carried it over to Worf’s bedside.

The faint scraping of Martok’s metal plackart against the plastic seat as he squeezed himself between the bunk and the chair told Garak he had sat down with his back to the room. Garak cracked an eye open and turned his head just as Martok reached out a tentative hand and placed his fingers on Worf’s ankle. When the comatose Klingon didn’t stir, Garak saw the General’s shoulders drop in relaxation as he began rubbing small circles on the Commander’s shin. Garak closed his eyes again, inhaled a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he pulled his doctor closer to his chest, pressing his face into Bashir’s hair as he did so.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back on _DS9_ after the end of the episode _By Inferno’s Light_ during Garak’s monthly inventory of Bashir’s quarters, Bashir notices Kukalaka is missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to PrairieDawn for getting me thinking about whether Garak knew the Bashir on the Station was a Changeling or not.
> 
> If you’re following this _No Privacy on a Space Station_ series, please do go back and check out the illustration by the wonderful Marz (@peacefulspock on Tumblr and Twitter) I added to the end of [ Hot Water ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18364163).  
> It’s beautiful, thank you Marz!
> 
> Oh yeah, and if you’re wondering why they’re taking an inventory of Bashir’s stuff, [ this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18409625) explains it.

“...twelve pairs of black socks, one pair of _Marauder Mo_ novelty socks, two pairs of—frankly hideous—mustard-and-hot-pink argyle pattern socks, a single grubby white sock with a hole in the toe, and two socks balled together which are not a pair at all.” Garak waved the offending ‘pair’ in Bashir’s direction accusingly.

“They _are_ a pair!” Bashir protested, “They’re nearly the same colour.”

“One is orange and the other’s blue.” Garak placed the mismatched socks carefully back in the drawer and closed it. He reached for the padd in Bashir’s hands. Scanning the doctor’s notes, he commented, “You haven’t recorded the condition of the white sock, my dear.”

“It’s a sock, Garak.” Bashir sighed. “I’m going to throw it away as soon as we’re done taking this inventory anyway.”

“It’s a single _greying_ white sock with a large hole in the toe.” Garak corrected, making notes on the padd as he talked.

“Whatever,” Bashir waved a hand dismissively and reached for his tea, “Where was Kukalaka on the last inventory? I haven’t seen him since we got back from the Gamma Quadrant.”

Garak flicked a hand over the padd and skimmed down the last month’s inventory. “ _Second shelf by the bed_ ,” He read aloud, “ _Between a half-eaten cookie and a paperback copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ ; considerable wear to the stomach, face, ears and back; small hole under right arm_.”

“He’s not here now.” Bashir observed, inspecting the shelf. “The cookie is though.”

Garak watched with disgust as the Human put the piece of stale cookie in his mouth. “Ah, I took him and a few of your other possessions to my quarters for safe-keeping when I discovered you had been replaced by the Changeling,” He explained, “It slipped my mind until now, what with the need to escape the Dominion prison camp and all.”

“Really?” Bashir washed the remains of the cookie down with a swig from his mug and turned to his companion, “When did you discover the Doctor Bashir on the Station was actually a Changeling anyway?”

“When I let myself into your quarters to take this month’s inventory, of course.” Garak replied, unloading clothing from a drawer onto the bed.

“ _Garak_ ,” Bashir implored, “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t do that.”

“And I wouldn’t have if Changeling You hadn’t blown me off when I arrived at your quarters, as agreed, to take the inventory. He was very rude,” Garak complained, “He called me ‘nosy, fussy and annoying’.” He gesticulated indignantly. “Really, it was most uncalled for—I even bought snacks.”

Bashir picked up a jumper from the pile of clothes on the bed and held it to his face, pretending to examine it while he covered his smirk. “Well, I agree with the Changeling: you _are_ nosy, fussy and annoying. What snacks did you bring?”

“Some of those Gramilian sand peas you and Chief O’Brien are so fond of. I’m pretty sure Quark over-charged me for them too.”

“Of course he did.” Bashir chuckled. “Are you ready?” He inclined his head, indicating the padd still clutched in the Cardassian’s hand.

“Yes.”

“One black knitted jumper, in pristine condition.” Bashir re-folded the jumper and was about to return it to the drawer when Garak interrupted him.

“Is that fraying on the cuff?” 

Bashir held it up to the light to examine it. “With _slight_ fraying to the left cuff.” He conceded. “So, you broke into my quarters _again_. And what gave it away that I wasn’t... well, me?”

“Mhm?” Garak looked up from his padd. “Oh yes, the Changeling, “He sniffed haughtily, “‘You’ were working a double shift in the Infirmary, so I took the opportunity to get on with my inventory without having to further inconvenience you.”

“Hey, come on!” Bashir whined, “It wasn’t actually me, remember? There’s no need to take that accusatory tone!”

“Very well,” Garak conceded, “As I was saying, I took the opportunity to take my inventory without further inconvenience to...” He paused to glower at his companion, “...to the _Changeling_. I knew as soon as the door opened something wasn’t right.”

“How?”

“The place didn’t—ah—smell right, Doctor.”

“ _Smell_ right?” 

“How can I put this delicately, my dear?” Garak set the padd aside and sat down on the bed. “You Humans have a certain... hmm... well, you stink, frankly.”

“We do _not_!” Bashir punched Garak playfully on the arm then sat beside him.

“You do.” Garak countered, “You all have a distinctive musky smell. Every human smells slightly different and some stronger than others. The odour builds up in places you visit often and dissipates gradually in your absence.” Bashir regarded his companion incredulously. “This place hardly smelled of you at all. Chief O’Brien was pretty strong—he must have visited the Changeling here the day before—but _you_ were faint, I had to close my eyes and _taste_ the air to detect your scent at all.”

“And you knew I hadn’t been home in a while.” Bashir concluded, leaning his head against his friend’s shoulder.

“Yes, since at least before your trip to that medical conference,” Garak continued, “And a quick inspection of your wardrobe told me your clothing hadn’t been disturbed for a week.”

“Changelings’ clothes are part of their bodies, so you knew I wasn’t me; that I was a Changeling. That’s really very clever Garak.”

“Why, thank you, dear.” Garak smiled a tight-lipped smile at the compliment.

“So, what did you do about it?” Bashir asked.

“Well, I didn’t relish the prospect of a Founder discovering me in your quarters, so I abandoned my inventory and took a quick look around for anything of value the Changeling was unlikely to notice missing and picked up a few things for safekeeping, then I left.”

“You took Kukalaka,” Bashir said, “And what else?”

“A padd of poetry—“

“I was looking for that!” Bashir interrupted, “There was one I thought you might like. I was going to read it to you.”

“Let me guess,” The Cardassian turned to grin fondly at his friend, “The one with the wolf-poet and the child?”

“Carol Ann Duffy.” Bashir nodded. “ _Little Red Cap_.”

“Your Earth writers romanticise the strangest things,” Garak observed, kissing the Doctor lightly on the top of his head, “But yes, I did enjoy it.”

“It would have been nice if you hadn’t hacked into my padd.” Bashir griped.

“You’d been replaced by a Changeling,” Garak remonstrated, “For all I knew you were dead and that was all I had left of you.”

Bashir snorted derisively. “The poetry and Kukalaka.”

“Yes. _And_ that hideous green tank top you insist on wearing just to plague me.”

“You took that?” Bashir laughed. “But you _loathe_ it!”

“I do.” Garak agreed, “But you seem very fond of it and I didn’t think the Changeling would have any use for it.”

“Mmm, that’s sweet.” Bashir wrapped his arms round his friend in a bear hug. “It _is_ very comfy and I only wear it in the privacy of these quarters anyway.”

“You do not!” Garak wriggled out of his companion’s embrace. “Why, just three weeks ago I saw you striding across the Promenade wearing it along with those hideous orange pants.”

“No,” Bashir grinned, “You must have been mistaken.”

“I saw you from my shop, going into Quark’s.” Garak countered. “In fact, I saw pretty much _all_ of you and so did half the Station. That top doesn’t leave much to the imagination, my dear. The velour is really quite thin and it’s far too tight. The Promenade can get quite chilly, you know.”

“Ah yes,” Bashir’s face lit up in recollection, “It was an emergency! Chief O’Brien had shown up at my door in a terrible state. He’d had an argument with Keiko about... ah...” Bashir fumbled, trying to remember the details. “...something? And we needed Scotch, so I ran to Quark’s to get a bottle.”

Garak chuckled, “Well, it certainly _brightened_ my day. The image will be forever burned into my retina.” 

“Glad to be of service.” Bashir smirked.

“Hm.” Garak snorted, turning back to the pile on the bed. “Speaking of hideous garments,” He picked up a white-and-grey jacket with gold piping, “You really aught to hang this up.” He admonished. “One dress uniform jacket, creased.” Still smirking, Bashir picked up the padd and recorded it.

 

Once their register of the bedroom and living area was completed they broke for lunch before tackling the bathroom.

“Garak, what did you do about the Changeling?” Bashir asked over bread and plomeek soup.

Garak swallowed his mouthful and replied, “I watched, and I waited, of course.”

“You didn’t go to Captain Sisko?”

“Really, dear what good would that have done?”

“Odo could have stopped the Changeling before it killed four Starfleet officers and tried to fly a runabout full of explosives into the sun!” Bashir half-shouted, blood rising in his cheeks.

“And when Sisko mounted an operation to capture the Changeling, it would have shape-shifted into something innocuous and hidden in plain sight until it could enact its plan anyway.” Garak countered. “By keeping my discovery secret, I was able to covertly surveil the Changeling and try to gather information on its mission and your whereabouts.”

“Alright,” Bashir conceded, “That was a sensible course of action and I’m sorry I got angry with you.”

Gark gave a little bow of his head. “Apology accepted. We’ve all been under a lot of strain these past few days. Shall we crack on, dear?” He reached for Bashir’s empty plate.

They loaded the remnants of their lunch back into the replicator and replicated drinks for themselves. Bashir took a large raktajino and Garak a glass of red leaf tea. They made for the bathroom.

 

“...one toothbrush, green, with remnants of toothpaste on the handle...” Garak, standing at the sink, listed aloud while Bashir, seated on the edge of the bathtub, took notes. “...one comb, black, containing—“ The Cardassian broke off his speech to count under his breath. “—five near-black hairs and one grey—“

“I’m not writing that.” Bashir protested.

“Fine. Give me the padd.” Garak held his hand out.

“It’s too personal,” Bashir whined, clutching the padd to his chest, “And I don’t have _any_ grey hairs anyway. It must be one of yours.”

“I’ve never used your comb.” Garak plucked the hair in question from the comb and held it up to the light. “It’s definitely Human, and _definitely_ grey.” He replaced the hair precisely and carefully back between the teeth of the comb. “It’s knowing little details such as this that could, for example, alert me to the fact that you’ve been replaced by a Changeling.”

Bashir sighed in resignation and dutifully typed the information into the padd.

“Hair product.” Garak continued, picking up a small grey plastic jar. He opened it and gave it a sniff. “One container, _Wax-O-Shine_ —That’s a Ferengi brand!” He looked round questioningly at Bashir, who shrugged.

“I buy it from Quark.” He said.

“There are far more effective hair product lines available, my dear Doctor,” The Cardassian admonished, “Ones made by species who actually _have_ hair.” He turned back to further inspect the jar. “My dear, did we make any notes for this in our last inventory?” He asked.

Bashir flipped thought the padd’s files. “Uhh, give me a moment... Ah, yes.” He jabbed a finger at an entry in the relevant spreadsheet. “ _Outside of container greasy; three hairs stuck in substance within; two-thirds full_.” He read aloud.

“This is nearly empty.” Garak approached his companion, holding the jar out and angling it so the Human could see its contents. “And you’ve been off the Station for two weeks. It shouldn’t have gone down this quickly.”

“Maybe the Changeling paid more attention to its appearance than I do?” Bashir mused.

“Yes, that must be it.” Garak nodded, replacing the lid on the hair product and bending to open a small cupboard under the sink. “It was more tidy than you tend to be.”

Bashir scowled at the implication he was messy by comparison. “You’d think it would just shape-shift great hair or something instead of using up all my product.”

“Mmm,” Garak agreed, head in the cupboard, groping for something at the back. “Maybe it was going for the authentic Julian Bashir experience?”

“That must be it.” Bashir agreed.

“Aha! Garak withdrew from the cupboard and sat back on his heels triumphantly. “A self-sealing stem bolt!” He held his prize aloft.

“One self-sealing stem bolt, dusty.” Bashir noted, typing it up on the padd. “When we’re done here, can we go to your quarters and collect Kukalaka please?” He asked.

“Of course, dear. Perhaps we could take him to a holosuite for an hour? Show him that terrible spy programme of yours?” Garak grinned toothlessly.

“And then dinner at Quark’s?” Bashir asked hopefully, rising from his perch on the edge of the bath and crouching to join Garak on the floor. He gave the Cardassian a quick, affectionate peck on the cheek.

“No,” Garak grimaced, “Too noisy. The Replimat?”

“Agreed.” Bashir lent in to kiss Garak’s lips, using the distraction to take the stem bolt from his hand as he did so, and tossing it over his shoulder.

It flew out the door and skittered across the bedroom floor. Garak made a small noise of distress in the back of his throat and tried to rise to chase after it, but his companion pushed his shoulders down, restraining him.

“We’ll find it when we take our next inventory.” Bashir grinned, kissing his friend again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently Quark sells Bashir all sorts of crap (novelty socks; shitty hair product...).
> 
> Uh yeah, so I think there is in fact going to be a third chapter for this and the rating may well go up 😳


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our heroes descend into gratuitous scenes of physical intimacy without any pretence at plot and Bashir sort-of maybe eats Garak out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk if this counts as porn or not and I don’t think our protagonists know either; it’s either very sensual non-sexual intimacy, or it’s sex. You can decide for yourself (perhaps we can have a vote in the comments or sthg). In any case, I have upped the rating.

Once their inventory was completed, the two friends retired to to sofa to watch an episode of the Bajoran sitcom _Rakantha Street_. The opening credits had barely finished when Garak made his first comment about poor writing and hammy acting.

Bashir tucked his feet under himself and leaned into his companion’s side. “It’s supposed to be a bit of lighthearted entertainment, not some serious high-art thing,” He retorted.

“But it’s really let down by the dialogue,” Garkak countered, slipping an arm round the Human’s shoulders.

“Well, _I’m_ enjoying it,” Bashir insisted, “And I’d appreciate it if you would stop talking over it.”

Garak grumbled under his breath about Humans and Bajorans sharing a distinct lack of taste, but fell silent nonetheless—save for the occasional groan or chuckle at a joke—and enjoyed the doctor’s body-heat seeping through his clothing where their sides pressed together. He ignored Bashir’s fingers fumbling absently at the hem of his jacket while the Human watched the holoprojection, until his hand had made its way under the jacket and untucked a fistful of undershirt to rest against his stomach.

“My dear, what are you doing?” Garak enquired.

“Hmm?”

“Your hand?” The Cardassian prompted. “What are you doing?”

Ah, mmm,” Bashir grinned up at him, “I like your belly.” Garak snorted dismissively. “No really,” Bashir continued, giving it a gentle squeeze. “It’s nice.”

“Really Doctor, you do behave strangely sometimes.”

‘I do not!” Bashir protested. “And anyway, I _do_ like it! Here, let me show you.” He withdrew his hand from under Garak’s shirt and reached for the fastening at the neck of his jacket. Garak sighed and nodded his head in acquiescence.

Sitcom forgotten and still chattering away, Bashir made swift work of the fastenings then, leaving the jacket hanging open, settled himself cross-legged on the floor between Garak’s feet. Pushing the tailor’s undershirt up, he placed both palms flat on the other man’s belly just above the hips. 

“You see here,” He murmured, pressing his fingers gently into a fleshy spot below Garak’s ribs, “You’re all soft, but if you tense your muscles—“ The Cardassian obliged and the doctor pressed once more with his fingers. “—I can feel your obliques.” Garak made a nonplussed noise in the back of his throat. Unperturbed, Bashir continued, face lighting up as he dragged his fingertips over Garak’s belly. “Here, there are scales—“ He paused and bent forward to indicate the area with a light kiss. “—and _here_ , it’s smooth skin.” He placed another kiss closer to the centre of the Cardassian’s belly.

Garak self-consciously shifted his weight around on the sofa. “I’m unconvinced these are attributes worth remarking upon,” He groused.

“Ah, but have you seen—?”

“Yes, I believe I have, dear.” Garak interrupted.

“—Here?” Bashir, ignoring the interruption and now thoroughly warmed up to his subject, enthused. He ran a hand over the concave flesh of Garak’s paunch. Garak reflexively pulled his stomach in. “There’s fat over muscle and the skin’s so soft here.”

“Yes,” Garak winced, still uneasy with the attention, “More fat than muscle.”

“Oh, but it’s lovely.” Bashir shifted his legs around so he was kneeling and reached for Garak’s hand. “Feel,” He pressed the grey fingers against grey-green skin, “It’s warmer here than on your chest.” He pushed Garak’s hand up under his undershirt. “See?” Garak grunted acknowledgement. “And there’s more muscle than you think. Our abdominals keep our internal organs in place, are vital for posture and breathing, they’re integral to coughing, urination, defecation, vomiting, childbirth, speech—“

“Dearest,” Garak interrupted the doctor’s infodump with a hand to the shoulder, “I don’t need the entire anatomy lecture.”

Bashir sat back on his heels and grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, I got a bit carried away.”

Garak smiled fondly and petted Bashir’s head. “This entire endeavour is you getting carried away, dear,” He teased.

“Mhm,” Bashir hummed in agreement, returning to his inspection of Garak’s belly and spotting the tip of the chuva protruding from the top of his trousers. “Aha!” His hands flew to the Cardassian’s waistband. “May I?” He asked, fingers on the fastening. 

“Go ahead,” Garak sighed, resigned to his continued humiliation at the hands of his incorrigible companion.

Bashir unbuttoned Garak’s trousers and pushed them open, exposing the Cardassian’s lower belly, chuva, hips and the top of his genital slit. When the Human ducked his head toward his groin he braced himself for the inevitable sensory overload the sensation of the doctor’s lips on his ajan would bring, and was caught off-guard—leg jerking involuntarily—when those lips touched the crease at the top of his left thigh instead. Bashir withdrew and looked up questioningly. Garak smiled down at him and pet his head. Bashir pressed his face back to the crease, taking a deep appreciative breath.

“You smell delicious here.” He murmured against the Cardassian’s thigh.

“Oh now, come on!” Garak rolled his eyes, clinging to his last scrap of dignity.

“I do like it.” Bashir met his friend’s eye, earnest sincerity written on his face. “It’s subtle, sour-sweet. I find it comforting.”

“Hmph,” Garak snorted but let it go.

“Oh, and here!” Bashir’s focus had moved to the inverted tear-drop ridge beginning roughly where the navel would be on a mammal’s belly and coming to a point at the top of Garak’s genital slit. Garak shuddered as he ran a fingernail delicately down the edge of the ridge. “You are so _delightfully_ sensitive.” Bashir grinned up at his friend mischievously and planted a kiss in the middle of his chuva.

“It _is_ sensitive, dear.” Garak stilled the doctor’s head by placing a hand on his cheek. “Do be gentle, please.”

“I will,” Bashir’s whispered, lengthening the ‘W’ to blow a cool breath across the supersensitive skin. Garak shivered in response.

Garak moaned deep in his throat when the Human’s lips pressed hot against the ridged edge of his chuva. His head lolled over the back of the sofa, and his body slid down a little toward the man kneeling between his legs as he relaxed into the sensation. His second moan when Bashir’s tongue flicked across the ridge came out closer to a growl and he pressed a hand to the base of the doctor’s skull.

“Oh, oh... my—my dear Doctor.” Garak faltered, voice hoarse, eyes rolling, limbs turning to jelly, his hand flopping onto Bashir’s shoulder.

“Mmmmf,” Bashir mumbled against Garak’s belly, tongue laving at the indentation in the middle of his chuva, fingers of one hand pressing the fabric of his trousers into his thigh, the other hand gripping a roll of soft flesh on the Cardassian’s flank.

Garak hissed a sharp intake of breath when the Human’s teeth scraped down the side of his ridge, coming to a halt with a light nip to the point of his chuva. Fluid slicked his ajan, his prUt twitching inside, he breathed deep, ragged half-sobs as Bashir flicked his tongue back-and-forth over the point. 

Garak lifted his head from the back of the sofa and began another attempt at forming a sentence. “My dear...” He slid his hand under the Human’s chin and lifted it so they could look at each other. “...I—Oh.” Garak’s eyes widened as Bashir found his chuva with a hand and ran a finger down its centre, and Garak broke off into a throaty moan. 

The doctor chuckled quietly to himself and pressed his mouth back to his friend’s chuva, kissing, biting and licking Garak into a panting and groaning frenzy, limbs floppy, back arching to press against the other man’s face, until the Cardassian let out a high-pitched keening cry, his body shuddering then going limp.

Bashir pulled away, wiped his mouth on his sleeve and slowly stood up, wincing and shaking the life back into his legs. Garak slumped on the sofa cushions, grinning and panting. Bashir grinned back and climbed into his lap, circling his long arms round the Cardassian’s shoulders and planting a kiss on his lips.

“Well...” Garak panted.

Bashir waited for him to complete the sentence, grin widening as Garak panted hopelessly. “Who’d have thought I could render you speechless, Garak?” He said gleefully, and pressed another kiss to unresisting lips. Behind him the credits rolled and the holoprojector flickered off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven’t forgotten they said they’d fetch Kukalaka after they finished the inventory. They will, I promise.
> 
> I imagine Garak is wearing his outfit from _Rocks and Shoals_ in this one, with the short jacket which opens at the front and the loose undershirt.  
> Credit to Tinsnip’s _Speculative Cardassian Xenobilogy_ paper https://archiveofourown.org/works/1719479. Bashir’s abdominal anatomy infodump cribbed from Wikipedia. In my personal headcanon Cardassians don’t wear underwear because their genitalia are internal so don’t require the same support ours do.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok, this chapter is _definitely_ sex. Skip it if you don’t want to read that.

Garak could feel his friend’s erection nudging against his hip as they kissed. Still breathing heavily, he wriggled his pelvis, grinding the bony protrusion into Bashir’s crotch. He was rewarded with a desperate little whine and the Human’s tongue pressing urgently into his mouth. 

“Perhaps we should do something about this?” The Casrdasssian purred when the broke for air, eyes dropping to his friend’s lap.

Bashir grinned. “Do you have something particular in mind?” He asked.

“You know, I think I do.” Garak replied, a salacious grin crossing his face. “Why don’t you go and get out of these appallingly garish clothes,” He pinched the fabric of Bashir’s tie-dyed t-shirt between his thumb and forefinger and inclined his head in the direction the bedroom, “And I’ll be along in a minute to—hmm—help out?”

Bashir grinned wider, gave his friend one final kiss and climbed down from his lap. “I think I could manage that,” He said, heading for the bedroom.

With Bashir out of the room Garak re-buttoned his trousers, straightened his undershirt and fastened his jacket. He stood, tugging his jacket down and running a hand over his hair to smooth out the dishevelment. He made his way to the replicator and ordered a glass of tea and a plate of chocolate chip cookies. Taking a sip of the tea, he grumbled under his breath about the inadequacy of replicated beverages, then picked up the cookies and carried both through to the bedroom.

 

Garak breathed a sigh of admiration at the sight of his friend reclining nude on the bed, his strange alien prUt half-hard in his hand, thumb rubbing idle circles on the head.

“ _Very_ nice,” the Cardassian nodded approvingly.

He set the glass and plate down on top of the chest of drawers and turned his attention to the heap of clothes on the adjacent chair. He picked up the topmost garment, a creased Starfleet uniform undershirt, folded it, opened opened a drawer and put it away. 

“ _Garak_ ,” Bashir whined imploringly, “What are you doing?”

Garak turned and fixed the doctor with a beguiling smile. “Why Doctor, I’m clearing this pile of laundry so I can sit down.” Ignoring Bashir’s groan of frustration, he turned back to his task, balling up socks and shaking the creases out of a pair of trousers before hanging them in the wardrobe. “You really aught to iron this, my dear,” He commented as his fastidiously folded a silk shirt. Bashir’s glare shot daggers at his back.

 

After what felt to Bashir to be hours, Garak folded the last t-shirt and slipped it into the drawer. He sat in the now-empty chair and reached for his tea. After a long swallow from the glass he settled back in the seat and addressed his companion. 

“Doctor, I believe there’s lubricant in the top drawer of the nightstand. Perhaps you would indulge me with a little...” He paused, grinning lewdly, “...show?”

“ _What?!_ ” Bashir asked incredulously, more than a little annoyed at being kept waiting through Garak’s clothes-folding performance.

“A show, dear.” Garak waived his hand airily. “You wish to—what’s the Human expression?— _get off_ , and I wish for some light diversion. It would be a mutually beneficial activity.”

Bashir sat up on the bed, pulling his knees up to his chest and sucking air through his teeth. “And there was me thinking you were going to help,” He grouched.

“I’m sure my presence will provide a certain inspiration.”

“Or just make it really awkward.”

“Hmph,” Garak scoffed, “Really Doctor, it’s not like you haven’t pleasured yourself in my company before.”

“Not with you just sitting there staring at me,” Bashir grumbled.

“Just pretend I’m not here.” Garak countered. “I promise not to stare.”

“What _will_ you do?” Bashir asked cautiously, unfolding his legs and stretching them out flat on the bed. 

“Drink my tea.” Garak raised the glass slightly in the Human’s direction.

“Hmm,” Bashir grumbled, cock hardening a little more at the prospect despite his unease. “Ok,” He acquiesced after a moment’s consideration, “But don’t do anything weird, please.”

“I’ll just sit here and drink my tea,” Garak promised.

 

Bashir fumbled in the nightstand for the lube, found it and squeezed a dollop into his palm. Trying to avoid Garak’s gaze, he settled back on the pillows and bought his hand to his cock, bracing himself for the wet chill of lubricant against his skin. After several false starts he found his rhythm and, closing his eyes, settled into it.

Garak’s throaty grunt of approval and the clinking of his glass as he set it down jerked the doctor out of it and a hot wave of embarrassment swept over him as he remembered he was being watched. He opened his eyes.

“My dear, you are quite lovely.” Garak, smiling tight-lipped, met his friend’s gaze. “Please do carry on,” He encouraged.

Self-consciousness fading, Bashir pushed himself up on on the pillows so he could maintain eye-contact with the Cardassian. “You like it?” He asked in a low, breathy tone, right hand returning to his cock while the forefinger and thumb of his left pinched his right nipple to a hard peak. 

Garak’s tongue darted out to licks his lips as he stared in fascination. “Oh yes,” He breathed, “I do like it very much.”

A moan caught in Bashir’s throat as he tightened his grip on his slick cock, the sight of Garak’s obvious enjoyment heightening his arousal. A sharp intake of breath accompanied a vicious tug to his nipple.

“My dear, are you close?” Garak asked, sipping his tea.

“Yes,” Bashir panted, fist a blur as he pumped himself.

“May I...?” Garak rose from the chair.

“ _Please._ ” Bashir whined, curling onto his side, one hand clawing at his chest, the other furiously beating between his legs.

Garak practically sprang onto the bed, toeing his shoes off on the way and slapping the half-empty glass of tea down on the nightstand. He wrapped his arms round his doctor, spooning him, one hand grasping a nipple and tugging harshly, leg wrapping around the Human’s ankle, pulling to force the other man’s legs apart, the other hand closing over Bashir’s, lacing their fingers together, slowing it. Bashir cried out. 

“My dear,” Garak growled, mouth against the Human’s ear, “Show me how you come off.” He relaxed his grip on Bashir’s hand, returning control over the speed to him, and gave his nipple another cruel tweak.

Bashir cried out louder this time, sweat beading on his forehead, fist tightening, squeezing cool reptilian fingers between his own hot digits against his cock, pumping furiously until he tipped over the edge in a frenzied shuddering groan, warm jizzum spilling between their intertwined fingers in two long spurts. Garak pulled him tight against his chest as he panted, catching his breath, their interlaced fingers lying slack against the Human’s softening cock.

“Mmmm,” Bashir giggled as Garak nuzzled his neck, “That was... something.”

“It certainly was,” Garak agreed, extracting his hand from Bashir’s and reaching for a tissue in the box on the nightstand. He wiped his hand off and handed a wad of clean tissues to his companion.

Bashir took the wad, rolled out of his friend’s embrace and began cleaning himself up. Garak picked up his glass and took a swig of barely-warm tea.

“May I?” Bashir held out a hand.

“It’s cold,” Garak warned, handing the glass over. Bashir took a sip and pulled a face. “Red leaf,” Garak informed him.

“And no sugar,” Bashir complained, taking another draught and wrinkling his nose at the taste.

“Ah, I replicated cookies,” Garak remembered, and made to get up to fetch the plate.

“And I need a pee.” Bashir beat him to it, rolling out of bed and grabbing a cookie on his way to the bathroom.

Garak crossed his arms behind his head, sighed contentedly and stretched out against the pillows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garak watching Bashir jerk off seems to be a theme I keep returning to. I wrote about it [in another fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16696111) as well.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We’re back to the fluff, hurt/comfort and caregiving. Bashir and Garak have a talk about the merits of therapy and they finally get around to retrieving Kukalaka.

Garak did his best to push down the anxiety at the crumbs his companion was dropping over his chest as he chewed on a cookie, curled naked against the Cardassian’s side, head resting in the hollow below his collarbone. He focussed instead on the sensation of the Human’s hair tickling his neckridge and the soothing tone of his voice as he chattered between bites. 

“We never did make it to the holosuite,” Bashir observed.

“No, dear.”

But this was better—Oh, but we should get Kukalaka!” Bashir pushed himself up to lean over his friend, “He’s been on his own in your quarters all day!”

Garak smiled indulgently up at the Human. “Kukalaka is a stuffed toy,” He said, “I’m sure he’s been fine on his own.”

“He’s been my constant companion since childhood,” Bashir frowned in mock-indignation, “How can you dismiss him as a mere ‘stuffed toy’?”

“It’s a statement of fact, dear, but since he is of such great sentimental value to you, we must fetch him immediately,” Garak declared, attempting to rise from the bed.

Bashir sprawled over him, pushing him back onto the mattress. “I want to cuddle a bit more first,” He announced.

Garak chuckled and kissed his friend fondly. “As you wish, dear,” He murmured.

The chime of the comm system interrupted their pillow talk. 

“Ignore it,” Bashir mumbled against his companion’s mouth. It chimed a second time.

“Sounds like someone really wants to talk to you, Doctor.”

“It’s not urgent,” Bashir shrugged, “I’m signed off as unfit for duty, remember?”

“ _You have one urgent message from Starfleet Medical,_ ” The computer announced.

“Argh.” Bashir sat up and brought his hand to his head in frustration. “No, I’m not home,” He growled.

“ _You have one urgent—_ “

“Computer, disable audio notifications until oh-five-hundred tomorrow.” Bashir instructed.

“ _Audio notifications except for urgent messages disabled until oh-five-hundred hours._ ”

“Override,” Bashir sighed.

“ _Unable to comply with your request,_ ” The computer intoned brightly, “ _Urgent notifications cannot be overridden without level four authorisation._ ”

Bashir growled again and flopped back onto the pillows.

“ _You have one urgent message from Starfleet Medical_.” The computer repeated.

“My dear,” Garak suggested, “Why don’t you use your authorisation to override the controls?”

“I’m only a level two,” Bashir sighed, “I got downgraded when I was signed off.”

“ _You have one—_ ”

“Alright,” Bashir snapped, “Play the damn message.”

“ _Message from Counsellor Barton of Starfleet Medical._ ” The computer sang.

“ _Julian!_ ” A Human’s voice, full of professional jollity and forced familiarity, played tinnily from the speakers, “ _I tried to call you just now for our appointment but you didn’t pick up. Do drop me a message to let me know you’re ok and please try to stick to our appointment schedule in future. I look forward to speaking to you at nineteen-thirty hours tomorrow. Bye._ ”

Bashir scowled as he listened.

“She sounds nice,” Garak commented, staring up at the ceiling and trying not to laugh at his friend’s obvious annoyance.

“Oh, she’s probably lovely,” Bashir replied, “It’s just that daily therapy sessions are not what I need right now, you know?”

“Dear,” Garak reached out and touched a hand to Bashir’s thigh, “Back on the runabout when we talked about this, you did say you were not ok.” Bashir grunted noncommittally. “And Starfleet Medical have assessed you and declared you unfit for duty.” Garak continued.

“And they forced this regime of therapy on me,” Bashir griped.

“Yes. And in order to be declared fit for duty again you have to play their game,” Garak admonished, “Go to therapy. Show them you’re getting better. Get back to work.”

“I don’t see anyone forcing _you_ into therapy,” Bashir countered, “And you were in that Dominion internment camp too. You watched your father die and spent hours each day battling claustrophobia inside a wall, for gods’ sake!”

“My dear,” Garak soothed, taking the doctor’s hands between his own and bringing them to his lips to kiss the Human’s fingers, “I don’t deny I have a great number of psychological issues which would take years of counselling to even begin to address, but I am in the fortunate position of being my own boss and can therefore declare myself fit for work.”

‘You’re right. I have to play their game,” Bashir sighed. “I’ll send her a message.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed. 

“And keep your therapy appointments?” Garak pressed.

“Yes...” Bashir turned to look over his shoulder at the Cardassian, “Would you sit with me Garak?” He asked, “During the therapy sessions?”

“if that’s what you want dear, yes.”

“I think it might help.” 

“I’ll drop by at nineteen-twenty-five tomorrow then.” Garak smiled reassuringly.

“Thanks,” Bashir said gratefully, picking up his T-shirt from the floor. “I’ll send the message then we’ll go to get Kukalaka, ok?”

“Mmm,” Garak nodded, sitting up and carefully brushing the crumbs off his jacket into his cupped palm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s it! I hope you’ve enjoyed reading along and thank you for sticking with it. I started this thinking it was going to be a two-parter, but it ended up being five. Please do comment if you feel so inclined. I love reading your thoughts!

**Author's Note:**

> Title insipred by Radiohead’s _Sit Down. Stand Up._


End file.
